Ethel Gofen
I AM REMINDED OF THE REDSKIN
I am reminded of the Redskin who crawled on his
knees all the way to Mecca. His instincts were sound, but his
sense of direction was faulty .
My uncle lay dying in the hospital. We brought him a
transistor radio. The batteries lasted eight days and eight nights,
as everyone fled the floor complaining about the noise.
Woody Allen has spoken profoundly about death in one–
liners. I prefer two-liners. I say the first line; God says the
second.
No one who has not visited the Underworld can consider
himself well-traveled.
Karen Quinlan sleeps on, while earnest doctors track the
sources of the brain. They have it easy. They don't have to
contend with Pigmies, dysentery, malaria, mad tribal leaders,
rapacious Arab slave traders. They are still missing the essential
connection.
Fierce bees coming north from Brazil claim to be the sting of
death but are merely false prophets.
Terminally ill people fascinate me, challenging us to do a
wholesome deed in a dark world. I would like to give a good old
fuck or at least a glass of water, and in certain cases Perrier, to
every dying man, woman, and child. Terminally
ill
people are
coming out of the closet.
Moral dilemma: what to do with the perverts lining up to
screw Karen Quinlan?
I am angry with my father for going gentle into that good
night but, more than that, because he never calls or writes.
